


Within a Forest Dark

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Freeform, Gen, No Dialogue, Seven Deadly Sins, guess who?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?





	1. Superbia

Military order.

Rows of beds, neat and tidy. A limb, cleanly cut; a stump, promptly sewn in record time, the patient still conscious at the end, although screaming bloody murder - most lily-livered of him.

Food and supplies carefully rationed. Medicine even more so - pain is good for the soul.

Buttons polished, boots shined, whiskers waxed. The perfect image of a true Union officer, manfully commanding his troups to a glorious victory against the lowly Rebels.

A swarm of orderlies under his power. Skilled doctors under his guidance. Lovely ladies abounding. A silver-tongue Baroness as Head Nurse. An English Lady, trained in Scutari by the legendary Florence Nightingale, as true Head Nurse… and paramour (one wonders who taught her _that_ skill set? Ha, such wit, old boy!)

A truly well run hospital, indeed. By a truly superb man.


	2. Invidia

It was unfair.

How were they better? Where they not all made in God’s image? Why did they get to be whoever they wanted to be, while others suffered the whip and yoke, their own desires irrelevant, their families torn apart as per the Massa’s whims?

Did they only know how lucky they were, these foolish white men?

Did they only know what would be given, for a life among them? To be respected as an equal, a peer. To have counsel sought, expertise requested. To grow old surrounded by loved ones, seeing them thrive and bloom and call this country their own with pride.

It was unfair, but maybe this war would take it all away from them, and finally let them feel the pain they had imposed onto others for too long.

And let us feel the freedom so long desired. So long forbidden.


	3. Ira

Such an abominable waste.

A man, so young. A boy, really. His life in front of him.

His life taken by him.

A moment of despondency, of fear. His mind more wounded than his body by the war, mending so very slowly. They had edged him on, forward, march! Back to the front! Straight on to his death, to eternal damnation into the fiery pits of Hell.

A boy failed. By his friends, by his family, by those who meant to help him heal.

His voice had risen, her face had fallen, but this was no time for shame nor sentimentality.

A soul was at stake! And so many more would yet be! So many already were... 

The book had flown across the room, the desk cleared of its content in furor. A scream burried in a pillow, which was then pulled to helpless shreds. Better it than another man. So many precious lives, so utterly wasted. So many skills that would be better served fighting to save them, rather than speaking empty words once it was too late.

Such cruelty in the fate prescribed; surely that could not be so? It was just a boy, Lord! Have mercy on his soul, damn you!

Have mercy on us all! Forgive us, for we know not what we do! 


	4. Acedia

Inside the wards, so much pain.

Inside the home, so much disappointment.

Inside the mind, so much conflict.

Nothing was ever enough to soothe any of it, every gesture causing merely a ripple in the ocean of chaos and resentment that drowned every moment of every day. That extracted all energy, optimism and kindness away, leaving only a bitter, sardonic, wounded shell behind.

Oh, to escape it all... To live, for a single blessed instant, in a world without recrimination, nor doubt, nor ceaseless screaming. A world of peace and comfort and blissful quiet.

To fall down, relaxed at last, oblivious of time and duty, as a dreamless sleep hushed it all away, finally free. Free to float, and fly, and soar.

Free to disappear into nothingness.


	5. Avaritia

That would not do. To stand still was not an option.

There were ladders to climb, important positions to occupy. Chief officers and political emissaries to impress; Presidents, even. And why not? A land of opportunity, indeed.

After this, who knew? More prestigious hospitals beckoned, with richer patrons. Or a more gentle life, if it could be found. In the arms of a doctor, maybe. That would be quite suitable.

Never again to go hungry. Never again to worry about the money owed to the grocer, the landlord, the local gang prowling the streets. Never again to consider all desperate measures to make ends meet and survive another miserable day.

To live in comfort, in luxury even, if the cards were played right. If proper allies were found and opponents, eliminated.

All is fair, in love and war. And war could be very generous to those who knew how to make it pay.

To the victor go the spoils.


	6. Gula

They were all reluctantly given up: the vanities, the embellishments. The non-necessities. For the good of the Cause, a life of plain charity had been embraced, relinquishing to a naïve antebellum the abundance of riches once taken for granted.

Yet there was not a morning where the frugal breakfast did not draw a sigh. A noon where a frilly parasol was not conjured up against the burning sun. An evening where the wounded soldiers were not transformed into gallant courtiers, the ward into the grandest of ballrooms, with champagne fountains, crystal chandeliers and string quartets delighting the senses.

 _Perhaps it shall be once again, when the war is over?_ the heart ventured, hopefully. _The Glorious Cause won, our way of life preserved just as it was, and better so again?_

Not a night where sleep did not come bearing the colorful sheen of Chinese silk, the delicacies of French cuisine, the adoration of a Southern gentleman, and leaving her ever the hungrier for more.


	7. Luxuria

It cannot be. It died a long time ago, buried with the memories of a one and only companion.

A marriage so sweet, so perfectly suited, so cruelly brief. Such wonders barely enjoyed, much less understood, heart and body discovering exquisite secrets unbeknownst to the mind, before all were taken away in a spike of fever, a last breath, never to be found again.

Yet in these new eyes, inscrutably dark, teasing but intense, it is born again, and burns with a frightful flame. This painful longing: to be touched, to be held. To be loved. To lose oneself completely into another.

Another who is someone else’s, by Man’s law, under God’s eye. Another with amoral beliefs, and offensive behaviour, that should only inspire contempt and disgust. Another sickened and tortured by devils unknown, who requires patience and fortitude, not temptation into further sin.

Yet on every heavy look, every light touch, every utterance of the two short syllables that so adoringly speak a name, the desire feeds, and grows, and consumes, leaving only ashes wherein lied the path to redemption.

**Author's Note:**

> A themed drabble I mostly wrote on the plane between shots of "I'm bored" and "Are we there yet?" with NO PLOT and NO DIALOGS! Vacation writing, indeed :)
> 
> Have fun figuring out who's who in this (shouldn't be a problem, think Season 1 time frame), and let me know who you would rather have associated with the seven deadly sins. There were many other candidates, of course, some of which fit probably the bill for all sins, but we agreed never to write about him again. 
> 
> Title and summary are from Dante's Divine Comedy.


End file.
